


the scars from our charade

by tickatocka



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mild Gore, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 05:17:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2839430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tickatocka/pseuds/tickatocka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murphy wasn’t made to be good; he was made for the dirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the scars from our charade

**Author's Note:**

> prompt was "sunshine," given by anon and cross-posted to my tumblr [[here](http://tickatocka.tumblr.com/post/106037078096/murphamy-sunshine)].
> 
> this occurs immediately after 2.08, so thar be spoilers.

> _you’ll never know dear, how much I love you  
>  please don’t take my [sunshine](http://tickatocka.tumblr.com/post/101808329856/crescenthopes-the-other-night-dear-as-i-lay) away_

Murphy heard the bedlam of Finn’s execution from his makeshift bunk amidst the Ark’s wreckage, even this far from the camp’s entry gates; the grounders’ war cries clattered through the empty hollows of metal and resonated deep in his bones. He knew the pain of grounder anger and the sounds felt like their fists and knives all over again, shivers of memory running across his skin like the edge of a blade. Finn would not die easily.

But then, all at once, silence. There were no chants, no cries; not even the Ark’s people made noise. Only stillness, a void, the kind that swallows all sound and leaves your lungs empty in fear. This was not good silence.

Murphy lifted his head and took his hands off his ears. It would be better to hear anything than to hear this kind of nothing.

And then, screams. Raven’s first; Murphy recognized it. Then, others from the Ark, and dissatisfied grounder chants. The sound tightened around his throat and the crushed hall of metal around him felt so silent, so singular. The torchlight beside him seemed garish. His head throbbed. His stomach turned.

One thought slithered into his head, loud and true: _That should have been **your** execution._

His stomach heaved. He clambered to the edge of the broken hall, catching his hand on a jagged edge of metal before his feet hit the outside earth. The shimmer of blood across his palm was the last straw; he fell to his knees and gagged into the dirt until his stomach was clear, but heaved emptily for another long minute as his body tried in vain to purge itself of his guilt. Then the heaves turned to sobs, soundless cries he grit his teeth against while tremors shook his entire self.

The sound of the grounders faded as he wept. He was entirely alone with the dark and the rain, alone with the remnants of the Ark and the remnants of his humanity, alone with his guilt and his vices and the wicked voice in his head repeating cruelties that Murphy knew were true. Clarke had been right to blame him; Raven had been right to sacrifice him. He may not have pulled the trigger, but he hadn’t stopped it from happening, either.

_You deserved to die there_ , the voice went on, and Murphy gagged again, arms and chest and body all shaking with the force of it. _You._

Murphy sat back on his heels, eyes closed against the rain, and slammed his hands into his head. _Stop._

_You killed, too. With these same hands._

Murphy slammed them into his head again, harder; he made fists and did it a third time when the voice merely echoed.

_You tried to hang Bellamy._

Fists, again. He felt a scab above his eye tear open. The gash of pain and heat felt good.

_He hates you._

He struck the same spot, felt warm blood ooze out over his eyebrow.

_You disgust him. You disgust them all._

He ran the nails of his other hand over his opposite cheek, scratching hard into the skin, leaving stinging marks and ripping wide another half-healed wound.

_You should die._

"I know," he told the voice, aloud this time.

He couldn’t fight himself any longer; this had always been inevitable. He always would’ve ended up here, no matter how hard he tried to pretend he was good. He wasn’t made to be good; he was made for the dirt.

_I should die._

"I should die."

Murphy opened his eyes, swallowed hard. The smell of bile and soil and blood clung to him like the darkness, and he knew he belonged here. Alone. Dying. An abomination being put out of its misery, leaving a world it had never belonged to in the first place.

He slid the knife from his boot, the leather straps of its makeshift handle coarse and familiar in his palm. He pressed the tip of the knife into the flesh of his palm to test the blade. It wasn’t sharp. This would hurt. But it was better that way.

Taking another breath, he moved the blade over his wrist, where old scars from similar blades had long since faded, inflicted by his own hands but for reasons that seemed so childish now. Now, he wouldn’t hold himself back, or cut so shallow. Now, there was purpose to his knife.

He lightly dragged the point down to the more tender part of his inner arm and closed his eyes. Another breath: In. Out.

And then he drove the edge down, jaw tightening with the pain of it, until he felt rich warm red pour out. A sharp breath huffed out of his lungs and his shoulders tightened, but he had to keep going, had to—

The crunch of grass nearby barely registered before a hand shoved at his arm and another pushed on his chest, driving him backwards into the dirt. The knife dropped from his hand when his back hit the ground; a boot kicked it out of his reach.

He looked up at the cause of the interruption only when Bellamy dropped to his knees next to him and grabbed Murphy by the front of his shirt, hauling him upright.

"You son of a _bitch_ ,” Bellamy snarled, moving his hands to Murphy’s wounded arm. He clasped his palms around the cut, pressing hard enough to make Murphy wince, and looked at the open wounds on Murphy’s face. ”Why?”

Murphy didn’t meet his eyes; he tried to pull his arm out of Bellamy’s grip, but Bellamy held tighter.

"Murphy," Bellamy snapped, demanding. " _Why_?”

"I deserve to—"

“ _Bullshit_.” Bellamy let go with one hand and grabbed the edge of his shirt, pulling it to his mouth and tearing off a piece with his teeth. He held Murphy’s arm steady and wrapped the fabric tightly around the wound, then covered it with his hand again. “Get up.”

Murphy had no choice in the matter; Bellamy rose to his feet and pulled Murphy up as well. Murphy’s head spun. The cut hadn’t been deep enough to make him immobile, but his nausea didn’t help the blood loss.

"You don’t deserve this," Bellamy said as they began to move. He led Murphy with one hand keeping pressure on his arm and the other on the small of his back; the urgency was still sharp in his voice, but his motions were softer, now, less desperate. "And if this is about Finn—

"If you think you’re repaying me for saving your life, you aren’t," Murphy told him, mouth curving into a vicious smile of self-preservation. "You can’t save me if I _want_ to die.”

Bellamy jerked him to a stop in the shadow of a supply tent and spun to face him. His eyes flashed with anger and grief in the dim torchlight. Murphy could feel him trembling with rage.

"You don’t _want_ to die,” Bellamy said, voice low and fierce but honest. “You’re punishing yourself for something that you didn’t do, something you feel responsible for. But you _aren’t_ responsible for it, or for Finn, or for what happened out there tonight. I don’t _care_ if Raven or anyone else told you otherwise. It wasn’t your fault, and this isn’t your punishment to bear.”

"It doesn’t matter." The words came involuntarily, but Murphy meant them. "Why am I _here_ , Bellamy? I mean nothing, not to any of you. No one trusts me, and you can’t blame them. I’ve killed two people, and I’ve hurt more than that.” His voice edged on manic, and his lips began to twist into that grotesque smile again. ”I crippled Raven. I brought that virus back to the dropship. I betrayed our camp to the grounders. I tried to _hang_ you, Bellamy, and _you_ — you just _have_ to be the hero, don’t you? I saved your life once, and now you _have_ to repay that—”

"This isn’t about _returning favors_ , Murphy, and you know damn well I’m far from being a hero. More death won’t change that we all lost Finn tonight, and _you_ , trying to—”

Bellamy stopped abruptly, silent for a moment. He exhaled hard in a way that wilted him, collapsed his shoulders, and Murphy finally saw the way exhaustion had etched and carved itself into the hollows of his face.

"I won’t lose you," he said finally, quiet but resolute. "Maybe it’s selfish of me, but I _can’t_ —” He stopped again and scrubbed his palm over his mouth. “And it’s not because of Finn, or because we lost Finn. I _need_ you.” He tightened his hold on Murphy’s arm. “I need _you_.”


End file.
